We Can't Even Have Words

*sigh*

It’s official. I’ve reached the unfortunate conclusion that it is not a particularly good time to be a woman in America. I’m not sure if there has EVER been a good time to be a woman in America, frankly, but things seem to be taking rather a turn for the worst.

I no longer know why any of this surprises me. I suppose it is because I have made such a concerted effort not to surround myself with typical meatheads, nor do I spend time with misogynists (who can and do hail from both sexes). The downside of that, though, is that I tend to forget my vagina means that I will forever be a second class citizen.

In a fresh and interesting approach to insulting women everywhere, a judge in a Nebraska rape trial declared that no one in the courtroom could use any of the following words or phrases during the trial: rape, sexual assault, victim, assailant, or sexual assault kit. This gag order not only applied to the lawyers, police, or experts in the case, but it also included the woman who states she was raped.

The defense, who asked for this linguistic somersaulting, feels that using words like “rape” implies guilt. They argue that allowing the woman to say “That man raped me,” will make the jury will be unable to rationally look at the evidence and decide if, in fact, that man did rape her.

So the logical conclusion is to require the woman to use the exact same words to describe non-consensual sex as one would describe consensual sex. Of course. That makes perfect sense.

I’ve had a decent amount of sex. Good, bad, and indifferent. I am fortunate in that I have not ever been raped. There but for the Grace of God go I. That said, I cannot imagine being required to describe a sex act in which I was unwilling participant in the same words I would describe sex that I wanted.

Words have meaning. Sex and rape are not the same things. Period. Never. Never. It is an insult to everyone everywhere to even suggest anything different. And that is what this judge’s ruling does. By insisting that this woman describe what she perceives as a physical assault in the same words she would use to describe a consensual act, the judge takes away her ability to accurately talk about the truth as she knows it. Suddenly, the words to describe what really happened to her just aren’t there.

And that, my friends, is seriously fucked up.

Of course, the judge should admonish the jury that what a witness says or how she says it does not constitute a legal conclusion. After all, you might have a random complete idiot sucking air in the jury box who doesn’t realize that a trial is meant to ferret out what really happened. To say that the lawyers and other professionals mustn’t actually use the word “rape” might not be horrifying. “Rape” is a word that carries an immense emotional charge—as it should—and what the cops and the doctors and fuckall knows who else in this situation need to convey can probably be communicated through more exact and less charged terms.

But to say that they can’t use the phrase “sexual assault” is absurd, and to say that the woman can’t describe what happened to her as she perceives it is preposterous and a continuation of a terrible and terrifying victimization. Further, the jury was not even told that the forbidden words were, in fact, forbidden. What must those people have thought as everyone including the complainant tap danced around every term that would reasonably be used to describe the incident they were all supposed to try? A normal person might guess that the woman was, alas, batshit crazy.

I do find myself asking if Judge Cocksmack would have reached this same legal conclusion had this not been a date rape. If this woman were, say, out jogging or selling fucking bible subscriptions, would he have taken her words right out of her mouth? Methinks not. What the fuck do I know, though? Maybe my
uterus is wandering.

Of course, this would never happen in a robbery or a homicide. Rape, though, happens primarily to women. So, what does it fucking matter anyway? I should just be grateful to be out of the kitchen.

Pedicure-a-palooza

I have, on more than one occasion, built an entire outfit around a pair of shoes. Today though, for perhaps the first time ever, I built an outfit around my toenails.

For some kind reason, my stepmom decided to she wanted to treat me to a pedicure. I don’t know from whence this impulse sprang. Not that she isn’t generally friendly and generous, but she never before expressed any interest in the state of my beauty regimen. Whatever. It was certainly nice of her, and for god’s sake, my feet were devolving into something most un-cute.

So the nice people a the local strip-mall-nail-hut deposited me into their whirly, bubbly, Sharper Image-esque chair and proceeded to bring my feet back from the brink. As and added treat, I got a bling-blingy flower on each of my big toes. Very tropical and fun and girly.

All this means that today I had to pick a pair of shoes that would allow me to show off my pretty pink piggies to their best advantage. Then, obviously, I had to choose an outfit that matches the shoes. The upshot of all this ridiculousness is that I’m having a cute outfit day.

The other perk is that the first time I ever saw the tropical big toe flower was at The Liquor Fairy’s bachelorette party when I met Anna the Squirrel Savior. As a result, toe flowers remind me of a hysterical drunken weekend in Vegas in the company of crazy, fantastic women. Who would have thought that toenails could bring such joy?

Plus, as an added bonus, the magic fingers chair has done marvelous things for my back.

***
I wrote the above draft longhand first, as I sat in a corporate training hell listening to someone describe, in excruciating detail, how to use the software for the phone. For over an hour. This after we had an hour-and-a-half worth of training two weeks ago about how the actual, physical phone worked. Could you ever have imagined such a thing was possible? Me neither. I can now, though. Learning it made me wish I had died in infancy.

You know you’re in corporate training hell when a blog entry about your fucking toenails seems like a reasonable alternative to actually paying attention.

Two Weeks, An Abbreviated History

While I suppose that interesting and/or good things have been happening in and around my world I have not, of late, been inclined to talk much about them.

So here, a condensed update and informative primer in this, my life.

Yardageddon was a tremendous success. My mother and I spent four hours trimming, cutting, shearing, lopping, salting, and spraying various plants into submission or death. I am impressed at the destruction we wrought in such a short time. Although the ivy lives still, it is much less enthusiastic than it has been and therefore a less favorable environment for mosquitoes and other things that want to bite me. Cheers!

Speaking of my mom, she and I managed to complete some pretty impressive work on her screened-in porch—especially when you factor in that we were more or less making it up as we went along. Although anyone who pauses to even consider me working with power tools would undoubtedly scurry away to hunt up appropriate items for first aid, I am pleased to say that no one was hurt. Who woulda thunk it?

In young puppy Bennet’s quest to drive me batshit crazy, there was a tragic incident involving a baby bird in the yard last week. I wonder, whatever do the neighbors think as I run around waving my arms and yelling? My pets and I, doing our part for natural selection.

I am still looking forward to the upcoming arrival of my roommate. Last night I completed my $20 closet project, again with the help of my incomparable mom. Yes. $20. Here’s what I came to realize. A closet rod is little more than a slightly fancy and shiny stick. I love fancy and shiny as much or more than the next girl, but come on. $15 for a stick that is going to be behind a door that I keep closed? Not if I can help it.

Since this “closet” is actually the tiny room in my basement where the monsters used to hide, I realized there had to be a cheaper yet equally effective way to handle this. The answer came to me in the form of some PVC pipe, some plastic pipe strap, a thing of carpet cleaner, an air freshener, and some $3 wallpaper from big lots. Three hours later, and I am the proud owner of a huge walk-in closet complete with lined shoe rack. A thing of beauty? Perhaps not. A thing of tremendous thrift and effectiveness? Indeed. I got your Design on a Dime, right fuckin’ here.

Last week we attended the 88 MM Productions’ screening of their incomplete 48 Hour Film Festival movie. They were, sadly, unable to finish because some miserable bottom-feeders held up the sound guy. Luckily, no one was hurt. From the bit I saw, the looked quite good. It truly sucks that they were not able to finish, although I am given to understand that the fragment was selected for the “Best of . . .” showing this Thursday. Hooray! And besides, next year they can come back and continue their cinematic misadventures—although in future we hope that the only criminals are those that are actively involved in the filming.

Also last week The Boy and I went to see Much Ado About Nothing in Forest Park. Set in the old West, I think this production did a better job than most communicating the play to those who might not be totally up on their Shakespeare, as well as doing a pretty good job of editing to a manageable running time. For the first time ever, the characterr of Ursula was something other than completely forgettable--that was kind of a cool. The Boy is an excellent picnic companion, and a grand time was had by all.

Finally, I recently had to put into practice the wise advice of The Liquor Fairy. No, not “People who are still puking are not in imminent danger of alcohol poisoning,” although that is good to know. Nope. The bit about “You shouldn’t break bread with people you don’t like.” This weekend I had to choose between eating with a number of my friends and one distinctly non-friend, or spending a quiet evening at home with The Boy. Although a quiet evening at home with The Boy is always lovely and never unwelcome, it was rather a suck choice to have to make—to leave or not to leave. Really though, I find myself asking if it was really a choice at all?

Yeah, no. I don’t think that it was.

Whee!

The fact that Paris Hilton is going back to jail makes my heart sing.

It's not that I'm a hater. I'm just glad to know that "dumb whore" has not been declared an actual medical condition.

Yardageddon

Sunday! Sunday! Sunday!

This weekend is going to be Yardageddon 2007. It’s been a long time coming. From a tolerable distance, my backyard doesn’t look too bad. It’s shady and mostly green. A bit overgrown, sure, but I’m into that English Woodland Garden look.

Up close and personal though, it’s rather a clusterfuck. I have a superabundance of ivy, which looks fine, but allows for all manner of little fly-y bite-y creatures to breed without restraint and fuck with me mercilessly. There is tree life that knocks on my side door and invites itself in for cocktails and hors d’oeuvres. I think a vine just tried to eat Bennet.

It’s time to get all NoCo on this shit.

I have a weed whacker, and I hope that I have better luck with it than I have with my nemesis the lawnmower. I also have some trimmer thing, I don’t know what it’s called. I don’t need to know what it’s called because I don't care; it will chop plants into smaller bits and that is a good thing. I am going to borrow some lop shears.

Here’s the thing, though, does anyone have any suggestions for how to kill plants at the root? I looked at Roundup, but Roundup costs A Lot of Money, and I am poor. Roundup is out. Off brand weed killer has proven no match for the plant life around here.

Here are the things I’ve been told:

I’ve been told that drilling several holes into the trunk of a tree and pouring salt in will kill it. Done. The house next door has some piece of shit weedy tree just at the fence line that is trying to move into my house. I could cut it back, but why? They have all but abandoned that house, making no moves to sell it or rent it or reattach that siding that blew off last July. Fuck it. I’m sending the tree to see Jesus.

I’ve been told that plain white vinegar will kill plants reliably. Is this true? While not entirely thrilled about the possibility of my yard smelling like a cheap douche, I’ll give it a shot.

Any other ideas? At this point, I would probably put down some fucking Agent Orange if I knew where to find it.

Eat me, Alito

Did anyone else notice when the Supreme Court voted 5-4 to seriously fuck over all the women in America this week? Anyone? Bueller?

No, it wasn't a reproductive rights decision. Right now they are satisfied on that front, having ruled that the cocksuckers in Congress are better qualified than our doctors and ourselves to determine what medical procedures we might or might not need. Unlike the recent decision to uphold the so-called "partial birth abortion" ban, their latest infernal ass-fucking will piss off any thinking human regardless of his or her opinion on abortion

No, no. This latest judicial slap in the face even screws over women who are safely past their child-bearing years. In Ledbetter v. Goodyear Tire and Rubber Co. the Court decided, in essence, that while it is indeed illegal for companies to discriminate based on sex, it is only illegal for about six months. After that, it's fine. Or, at least, not actionable.

Same goddamned difference.

I suggest following the link and and reading the brief little analytical article on it. I might try to read the actual opinion once my blood pressure lowers itself enough that I can again see clearly, but I haven't yet. Here, though, is a synopsis :

Lilly Ledbetter retired from Goodyear after working there for 19+ years. At the time of her retirement, she earned $559 less than the lowest paid man who held the same position as she did. She had been paid less her entire career with Goodyear, based on the fact that she happened to be a woman at the time she was hired. The Court ruled that she could no longer to sue because Goodyear intended to discriminate only at the time they hired her, and Title VII stipulates she only had about six months from that date to file suit.

So, every time they they failed to STOP fucking her over because she was a woman? That's not important to this story. The fact that discovering pay disparity requires knowing what one's co-workers are paid, a process soundly discouraged by companies and by custom? Not important. The fact that the source of the original pay discrepancy, i.e. a vagina, was not at question? Tough titty.

You have GOT to be fucking shitting me. Seriously. This cannot be 2007. Continuing to fuck someone over for nigh unto 20 years does not constitute an ongoing intent to discriminate?

Fuck you, Alito. Seriouly. Fuck you.